


You always get under my skin...

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, A bit sad, Angst, Arguing, Confused John, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Present Tense, Return, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day twenty-three: arguing </p><p>Sherlock returns. John is shocked and surprised, then happy, then angry...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You always get under my skin...

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of two. Tomorrow it will be the way fluffier "making up afterwards" *winks*

It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. It’s been two years and nine months, and the pain is not as terrible as it was all that time ago. It is dull now, numb, a sort of soft ache that pops in every now and again, but doesn’t linger. At the back his mind, though, it’s always there. The memories of that windy day, the grave voice coming from the phone, the second it took for his whole life to fall apart. But it is only in the back of his mind, so John Watson tries his best to ignore how much he still mourns Sherlock Holmes’s death. 

At the moment, he’s is trying whilst picking up the shopping at the Tesco Express near Baker Street. Nothing much, just some pasta, bread, definitely butter, eggs and milk. He hasn’t had a Hobnob in nearly three years, John muses as he goes through the biscuit aisle. John decides he wants some beer tonight, so he picks up a four pack of Guinness. With the shopping done, he strolls back home with ease, now completely used to his limp again. It’s not that bad most of the time. At least the tremors haven’t returned, so he got a job at an A&E which is not overly exciting, but pays the bills. 

The front door is unlocked when he arrives, but John figures Mrs Hudson is in. It’s not as if anything terribly exciting has happened to him since… well. He shakes away these thoughts and pushes them into that nice little box he saved up just for them. In that box John keeps all sorts of things he can’t bear thinking about — he keeps 243 types of tobacco ash, maps of the back alleys of London, wrong Cluedo rules, Classical music, and heads in the fridge. John barely registers making it all the way up the seventeen steps, but finds himself staring at his slightly ajar front door, which is odd because he always locks up. He puts the shopping on the floor by the door and slowly opens it, a bit annoyed that he doesn’t carry his gun with him anymore. But who could that possibly be, anyway? Any enemies of… _his_ would’ve come already, and Mycroft only pays visits on the anniversary. John doesn’t even have anything of value to steal, unless criminals are interested in antelope heads wearing headphones these days. 

When the door is fully open, John finds the room dark and empty. He sighs, _maybe I did forget to lock up this morning_ , he thinks, admittedly a bit disappointed. John misses the excitement terribly. He misses running with a purpose, fighting for his life and those of others, _doing_ something. He misses the battlefield so much sometimes it hurts. Though all those feelings pale in comparison to how much he misses Sherlock himself. He was alone, so alone, and then he wasn’t, and now he is again. And he hates having these feelings tonight because his only source of company these days — Gladstone, the English bulldog his sister gave him a year and a half ago — is spending the night at the vet’s because of an ear infection. John sighs again, but is startled by a noise coming from the rumpled form he didn’t notice was on the sofa. 

‘What the…?’ he flicks on the lights to find a ghost lying on his sofa, sound asleep. It is a ghost, it has to be, because the man lying there is supposed to be dead. John’s eyes are wide as he slowly approaches the sleeping figure. The curly hair is changed, shorter and lighter now, and the cheekbones more pronounced. His face is haggard, gaunt, hollow as if he hasn’t eaten in days, weeks… He is paler than usual, but looks oddly tranquil, perhaps because of sleep. Though there are lines around his eyes and on his glabella. He looks tired while resting. But most of all, he looks… alive. So very alive. And breathing. ‘Oh, my God,’ John gives a strangled cry before gasping and clasping a hand on his mouth. This is… too much. 

Sherlock Holmes is alive. 

But… it’s… impossible. 

A sudden wave of relief washes through John, and it’s like he can breathe for the first time after being underwater for so very long. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until there’s a wetness on his cheeks from the tears streaming down his face. 

And then the relief gives room to realisation. Sherlock is alive. Which means that he’s been alive for two years and nine months without John knowing. He let John grieve his death, mourn the loss of the most important person in his life. Sherlock let John become that shell of a man he used to be, all the while being alive and well. He lied. And even more suddenly now John is angry. He clenches his fists so tightly it hurts. 

It would be wrong to punch a sleeping man, so John moves to wake Sherlock up. He touches that shoulder for the first time in years and a jolt of electricity runs through him. The spark of life once again, which only fuels his anger. With a few shakes, Sherlock snaps awake, those bright silver green eyes so alive and clever, it’s the final proof that, yes, this is Sherlock Holmes, and, yes, he is alive, has been, and probably will always be, because not even jumping from a building can kills this bloody bastard. 

_Outlive God, indeed_ , John thinks, his vision tinted with red. 

Sherlock stares at John with wide eyes, clearly surprised and unprepared for the sight before him. He scrambles up, lacking the grace he used to have, standing seemingly taller due to how much weight he seems to have lost. John is concerned, angry, happy and chagrinned all at once, and he doesn’t know what to do with so many emotions he hasn’t felt in years. 

‘John,’ Sherlock gasps, his baritone resonating through the walls of the flat. It’s so quiet outside, so dark, and John thinks he never heard such a loud noise before. He missed that voice so much.

‘Why…?’ John asks. Two plus years was a fucking long time and he wanted, no, he needs answers. He needs to know that Sherlock did it for any reason other than lack of trust in him. Eighteen months they’d known each other, John trusted Sherlock with his life, he needs to know…

‘I can explain,’ says Sherlock, putting his hands up in retreat. His eyes are pleading, his voice is weak, none of that makes John less angry. 

‘Oh, you can? Good. Good! And it better be a fucking good explanation, Sherlock, because I’ve been living an empty life in this empty flat for two fucking years and you were there, alive and well, lying to me this whole time!’ John yells, because he can. He can shout at Sherlock again. It is therapeutical somehow. 

‘Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn’t,’ Sherlock explains, remaining calm and composed as John bursts not-so-silently with anger. 

He almost punches a wall at the mention of that name. Always with the game, all because of that game. 

‘You and your fucking games!’ John shouts. ‘He was dead on the roof, killed himself! The police found him. But you jumped anyway!’ John exclaims. He can’t see reason, not now, and he knows that, but the urge to argue is making his blood boil. 

‘He had snipers, John, aimed at you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He said I had to jump to my death or else you’d die, all of you,’ Sherlock says, sounding even more pleading now. And he looks so tired. He sits back down on the sofa, and John just watches him. 

‘You could have told me!’ 

‘It would have been too suspicious if both of us vanished at the same time, John.’ 

‘No, it wouldn’t. Not if Mycroft helped. He would have been able to lie well enough to hide both of us as, what? We tracked down the snipers, is that what you’ve been doing?’ 

Sherlock nods. ‘Taking down the web.’ 

‘Fine. But you didn’t. You didn’t want my help. In the end, you didn’t trust me en—‘ 

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock says pointedly, ‘ever say that. I trust you with my life, John.’ His voice is deep and it worms its way into John’s guts, making him warmer. God, how he missed that voice. ‘I just don’t trust myself with yours.’ 

John just stares at him. He is spent, doesn’t have it in him to fight anymore. He was tired enough when he got home without all Hell breaking loose and his life being turned upside down. Again. The right way up this time. 

‘I do,’ he says quietly. Sherlock closes his eyes as if in pain. And he probably is. John makes a note of checking him out later for any injuries. 

‘You’re too important to me, you are not expendable,’ Sherlock finished as if that ended the subject. 

John walks over to the sofa and sits in front of Sherlock, on the coffee table. 

‘Neither are you.’

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song 'Another Girl, Another Planet' by The Only Ones, which I personally think sums up their relationship completely, from John's end anyway. 
> 
> Also, I promise tomorrow will bring loads of fluffy feelings, though comments and kudos would make me even more inclined to make it even more fluffy ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, you're awesome!
> 
> Cheers x


End file.
